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Open thine eyes, for meek Saint Agnes'

sake,

Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache."

Thus whispering, his warm, unnervéd Shaded was her

arm

Sank in her pillow. dream

By the dusk curtains:-'t was a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream : The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;

Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies: It seemed he never, never could redeem From such a steadfast spell his lady's

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,

Tumultuous, and, in chords that tenderest be,

He played an ancient ditty, long since mute,

In Provence called, "La belle dame sans mercy";

Close to her ear touching the melody: Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan;

He ceased-she panted quick-and suddenly

Her blue affrayéd eyes wide open shone: Upon his knees he sank, pale as smoothsculptured stone.

Hereyes were open, but she still beheld, Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: There was a painful change, that nigh expelled

The blisses of her dream so pure and deep;

At which fair Madeline began to weep, And moan forth witless words with

The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,

But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide;

The chains lie silent on the foot-worn stones;

rest

After so many hours of toil and quest, A famished pilgrim,- saved by miracle. Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest

Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well

To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel."

hinges groans.

And they are gone: ay, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm. That night the baron dreamt of many

a woe,

And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

Yet not the lightest tone was heard
From angel voice or angel hand;
And not one pluméd pinion stirred
Among the pure and blissful band.
For there was silence in the sky,

A joy not angel tongues could tell,
As from its mystic fount on high
The peace of God in stillness fell.

O, what is silence here below?

The fruit of a concealed despair; The pause of pain, the dream of woe;It is the rest of rapture there.

And to the wayworn pilgrim here,

More kindred seems that perfect peace, Than the full chants of joy to hear

Roll on, and never, never cease.

From earthly agonies set free,

Tired with the path too slowly trod, May such a silence welcome me Into the palace of my God.

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

[U. S. A., 1767-1848.]

TO A BEREAVED MOTHER. SURE, to the mansions of the blest When infant innocence ascends, Some angel, brighter than the rest, The spotless spirit's flight attends. On wings of ecstasy they rise,

Beyond where worlds material roll, Till some fair sister of the skies

Receives the unpolluted soul. That inextinguishable beam,

With dust united at our birth, Sheds a more dim, discolored gleam The more it lingers upon earth.

But when the Lord of mortal breath

Decrees his bounty to resume,
And points the silent shaft of death
Which speeds an infant to the tomb,
No passion fierce, nor low desire,

Has quenched the radiance of the flame; Back to its God the living fire

Reverts, unclouded as it came. Fond mourner! be that solace thine! Let Hope her healing charm impart, And soothe, with melodies divine,

The anguish of a mother's heart.

O, think! the darlings of thy love, Divested of this earthly clod, Amid unnumbered saints, above,

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Bask in the bosom of their God. O'er thee, with looks of love, they lend; For thee the Lord of life implore; And oft from sainted bliss descend Thy wounded quiet to restore. Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear; Their part and thine inverted see. Thou wert their guardian angel here, They guardian angels now to thee.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

[1775-1864.]

LAMENT.

I LOVED him not; and yet, now he is gone, I feel I am alone.

I checked him while he spoke; yet, could he speak,

Alas! I would not check.

For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought
To vex myself and him: I now would give
My love, could he but live
Who lately lived for me, and, when he
found

'T was vain, in holy ground He hid his face amid the shades of death!

I waste for him my breath Who wasted his for me! but mine returns, And this lorn bosom burns With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, And waking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years

Wept he as bitter tears!

"Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer,

"These may she never share!" Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold Than daisies in the mould, Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,

His name and life's brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, And, O, pray, too, for me!